


What I Learned From You

by kayura_sanada



Series: For Good [20]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Blood and Gore, Creative License for the End of the Fight, Dragon Age Quest: Demands of the Qun (DAII), Hurt Hawke, M/M, Protective Fenris, Specifically Spirit Mage Hawke Fighting the Arishok, Spirit Mage Hawke, This Fight - Yes I fought Like This - Took Half An Hour, Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 20:35:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12307251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayura_sanada/pseuds/kayura_sanada
Summary: Fenris watches helplessly as Hawke puts his life on the line for the people of Kirkwall.





	What I Learned From You

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure I'm thrilled with how this came out, but I hope you enjoy!

Hawke was a healer.

Fenris didn’t mean that simply as a mage. Being a healer was simply in Hawke’s blood. Everywhere he went, he found someone who needed help, or stopped a horde of undead from ravaging the land, or talked two people out of a death battle. There was something about Hawke that drew the man to anyone or anything hurting, as if he had been made to fix the world. An impossible, ridiculous task, but one Hawke seemed naturally drawn to, nonetheless. Fenris often wondered if it was something in his magic. He also wondered if it had been somehow instrumental in drawing Hawke to him.

So of course when tensions had risen between Kirkwall’s people and the Qunari, Fenris hadn’t found it surprising in the slightest that Hawke had gotten irrevocably involved. And, knowing Hawke as he did after all these years, he wasn’t surprised to find Hawke earning the respect of the Arishok simply by being who he was. It had actually made Fenris respect the man even more, though such respect was unnecessary after everything Azzan had done for him. And to find that Azzan held no ill will toward those of another faith – or toward him, for admiring those his faith hated so much – made him want to learn more about him. Was it any wonder he’d been falling for the man for years?

So when everything fell apart with the Qunari, he wasn’t surprised to find Hawke throwing himself into the middle of it. Again.

Fenris, however, had held his tongue as Hawke drew nearer and nearer to the Arishok. He knew what the Qun would demand, and what the Arishok might be willing to accept. He also knew better than to bring it up, for Azzan’s sake. But then the Arishok had brought it up himself, had called Hawke _basalit-an_ and had offered a one-on-one battle to determine the fate of Kirkwall.

And he had known how Hawke would respond. He had known, and he had feared.

Because Hawke was a healer.

Seeing Hawke face off against the Arishok, watching the man grip his staff before him as the Arishok loomed over him with a greatsword in his hands… Hawke wasn’t meant to fight one on one. He wasn’t meant to face off against a warrior without help. _Fenris should be out there with him._

When the battle began, it began with a roar. The Arishok charged, greatsword above his head. Azzan had never looked so small, even as he twirled his staff and hunched into a defensive stance. The Arishok’s greatsword swung down on Azzan’s head. The mage barely dodged to the side, rolling across the hard tile floor of the Keep, his staff clacking loudly as the Arishok turned, faster than even Fenris had been expecting. Azzan had no choice but to dodge away.

Fenris clenched his fists as Azzan danced back and forth, forced to do nothing but evade or die. Once, after a few minutes, Azzan ducked and rolled once again, pushed himself up, hopped back, and swung his staff. A bot of spirit energy blasted from the tip of his staff and hit the Arishok. Fenris and the others with him – Aveline and Varric, with Isabela standing behind them, the prize to be won – stood in the perfect position to see the shock on the Arishok’s face. The Qunari had never seen Hawke fight before, had never known that the man was a mage. Hawke used the Arishok’s surprise to get in another hit, then dodged again as the Qunari shouted and attacked again.

What occurred in the next several minutes would have been a sort of parody if it wasn’t a real man’s life – if it wasn’t Hawke’s life – on the line. The wide hall of the Keep stood mostly empty for the battle; Fenris and the others stood by the edge of the room, on the first step leading to the throne. The nobles of Kirkwall huddled up on the top of the dais, many women hiding behind the chair as if it could protect them. Fenris found himself desperately relieved to see the wide expanse, because it was the only thing that kept Hawke from getting hit. The man dodged the Arishok’s sword with a grace Fenris had never had need to see before on his trips with the man. His robes were loose enough to allow long stretches of movement – and, Fenris noticed once, to slip up Hawke’s legs, revealing tight pants that showed off the rounded form of the man’s calves. Thanks to those robes and the room’s size, Hawke managed to evade the Arishok enough to take a few potshots at the Qunari, whittling down the enemy with a thousand small cuts.

The problem became one of time, and of energy. Hawke took a few scrapes, each of which disappeared quickly enough for Fenris to know Hawke had that aura around him, his spirit lending him its power. Yet, though Fenris knew Hawke could travel for days with that aura, he’d never had to fight in a battle like this for so long. After countless minutes, Fenris could see Azzan begin to tire. His heart beat so fast it clogged his throat, made breathing difficult. His fists trembled at his sides.

This was not a battle Hawke should have to fight. This was not a battle Hawke should face alone, honor or not. For the love of the Maker, Hawke was not a warrior. What honor was there in this?

And then the Arishok used a healing potion, and Fenris’ heart sank. Azzan had to maintain his distance and just watch, mouth open as he panted, as the Qunari’s wounds closed up one by one, lest he walk straight into the Arishok’s blade. The Arishok wiped his cheek of leftover blood and grinned. “You fight well, for a mage,” the Arishok said.

Azzan nodded at the man with his chin. “You’re strong. Stronger than any I’ve faced before. Even dragons.”

The words made the Qunari preen. Hawke couldn’t know how intrinsically linked Qunari were to dragons, or what his words meant. “It will be a shame to kill you,” the Arishok said. And with that, Azzan hunkered back down into a battle stance, and the fight began anew.

Azzan was tired. Even if the man hadn’t been panting, Fenris would have seen it in the slightly slower reflexes, the tumble right before he tucked into a proper roll, the heavy set to his shoulders. Hawke took a slice to his arm. Fenris winced with him.

Azzan managed once more to hit the Arishok on the shoulder, in the gut, along the sides of his legs, a few of his shots going wild as he lost himself to exhaustion. Minutes dragged into over a half an hour, then an hour. Even the spirit’s aura couldn’t stop the sweat rolling down the sides of Hawke’s brow or the stumble to his steps. The Arishok got a hard swipe along Hawke’s side and, as Azzan backed away, pulled out yet another potion and healed himself again. Hawke gritted his teeth and held out his staff, trying for the twentieth time to paralyze the Qunari. It worked, finally, but too late. The wounds Hawke had managed to inflict closed all over again, and Hawke once more faced an enemy as healed as when the battle began.

Instead of trying an attack, Hawke retreated as far as he could, to the other side of the room. A few nobles called out in anger, in dismay. But Fenris understood. Hawke was tired because the spirit had to focus on his wounds before battling back his exhaustion. But by the time the Arishok was once more able to move, Hawke’s wound in his side had stitched closed, and his breathing had calmed somewhat. The sweat, while still wet on his brow, no longer fell. He gripped his staff tighter.

The battle began as if it had never started. This time, however, saw Azzan, for most of his first shots, aiming at the Arishok’s belt, from which he’d pulled his potions. Only after he’d attacked every pouch, forcing any potions the Arishok may have yet had to burst, did he turn his staff once more onto the enemy. The Arishok’s face was twisted into a feral grin. He was enjoying the battle. Hawke’s, on the other hand, was a vision of pulled brows and the taut line of lips – determination, and nothing more. The Arishok may love a good battle, but Azzan never had.

Fenris lost track of time, his body quivering with the need to move, to end this for Hawke’s sake. Once more, they were left to watch as Hawke whittled down his enemy’s defenses, taking hit after hit himself – a long, shallow cut across his forearm, a deep gash on his left thigh – each injury slowly closing up as he dodged and evaded, his steps not as nimble as they’d been in the beginning, but not as labored as they’d become before the short reprieve.

And then.

Fenris saw it happening. He saw it as it came, each millisecond crossed and embedded in his mind as, for the first time, Azzan backed against the column, forced to pull away from yet another downward swing, but unable to watch his placement in the room. His back hit that long white column of stone, and Fenris knew – as Azzan had to know – that the split second to orient himself would take too long.

The Arishok rammed his sword through Azzan’s gut and hoisted him up.

Fenris screamed.

There was a horrible sound of crushed bone and sloshed liquid, as if someone had dropped a bag of rotten milk. The people behind Fenris made their own shouts of dismay, garbling Fenris’ within the crowd’s. But Fenris could hear Isabela’s gasp, and he knew the others had heard him, as well.

He couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t help watching as Hawke, body limp upon the Arishok’s blade, hung in the air. The Arishok thrust his blade up, then lowered it and thrust upward again. Over and over and over, making Azzan’s body bounce like a broken doll. Fenris roared. He grabbed his sword and made to race forward. Someone grabbed his arm.

“Wait, Elf,” Varric said quietly, his eyes steady on the view before them even as Fenris turned on him, teeth pulled back in a snarl as he raged. The lyrium on his skin burned blinding. He almost choked on its heat.

He looked back to Hawke. The Arishok finally dropped him, no longer desecrating him. Fenris wanted to destroy, to split apart into pieces, to break and break apart until the red-hot lava burning his insides finally cooled. But for some reason he paused, his mind only aware of the body on the ground and the blood – so much blood – spilling everywhere, and the knowledge that Varric was Azzan’s friend, his closest friend, and it had to mean something that his friend told Fenris to stay back.

The Arishok turned to Isabela, his lips pulled back, his sword stained, stained, stained.

And Azzan moved.

Fenris made a strangled sound. Alive. Azzan was still alive? After that? _Faith_. His spirit. His beautiful, blessed spirit – something Fenris never, ever thought he would think, not ever – had kept him alive. Azzan was still breathing. If he could get help – if they just got to him in time, and dragged him to Anders–

Then Azzan stood, one hand covering the horrible, gaping wound in his stomach, and fired a bolt into the Arishok’s back.

Fenris yelped out some garbled sound. His fingers twisted in the air, around his sword. _No_.

The Arishok turned on Hawke.

“Don’t,” Fenris said, his voice barely a breath. “Run.”

Thank everything, but Azzan did.

The man was slow, sluggish, his hand coated with his own blood, his legs wobbling like a foal’s. He used the columns to keep a barrier between himself and the Arishok, his steps too slow, body too broken to dodge as he had before. The Arishok, for his part, kept to the battle of honor, chasing the killing blow instead of leaving the injured Hawke behind and grabbing what he wanted. He cut sideways, making to cleave Hawke the rest of the way through. His sword clanged loudly against the stone as Hawke ducked low. Hawke tried to stand back up, to push his legs straight once more, only to buckle to his wound. Fenris made a wordless sound of encouragement. “Get up!” he shouted.

Azzan got up.

The greatsword slammed down where Azzan had struggled just a second ago. The human slipped a bit on his own blood, puddled on the floor, leaving a red stream across the throne room. Yet despite the red painting his hands and robes and feet, Fenris thought he saw less gushing than before. Slowly, Azzan began to move faster, using his stomach muscles more than he had before. The Arishok’s lips twisted into a snarl – he’d obviously noticed Azzan’s healing wounds and no longer enjoyed the game.

The battle had dragged on for nearly two hours, and time was now on Azzan’s side.

The Arishok was finally starting to flag; it took longer for him to lift his sword. His swings were clumsier, his stride slower. Azzan could now keep away from the Arishok with some ease, though he’d begun sweating again. Every cut he took was shallow, and his golden spirit quickly healed him once more. The Arishok, on the other hand, no longer had any potions to his name, and each small blow added up. Enough time passed that a few blast marks dotted blue and purple and black around each cut, bruises forming even as they continued to battle. Azzan, on the other hand, seemed back to perfect health, though blood still stained him from arms to legs. He tried to paralyze the Arishok whenever possible, though it only seemed to work every once in a while. Still, it gave Azzan the chance to gain a safe distance from that long reach, and it gave him the opportunity to land consecutive blows, sometimes up to three, on the Arishok’s chest or cheek or neck. When his sigils didn’t work, he turned to his hastening spell. When before the battle had seemed to be one of endless contrition, finally it turned to what seemed an inevitable end.

Then Hawke used his hastening spell, backed up, and slipped in the puddle of his blood.

It had spread as time elapsed, slowly taking over the side of the room. Edges of the puddle had congealed, turning black and brackish as the second hour passed. Several times, both Hawke and the Arishok had come close to falling, turning their attacks and evasions into a momentary balancing act as they struggled to maintain their balance. And this time, again, Azzan managed to keep his feet underneath him. But his arms flailed, and instead of blocking the Arishok’s swing or backing away, he caught the sword right beneath his arm. He choked out a gasp and smacked against the side of the column. Before he could do more than bounce, he was once more impaled.

Trapped against the column, Hawke could only curl around the blade and cough, his already-bloody hand moving up to grab the sword where it protruded from his chest. Blood burbled up his lips, fell down his chin. But he locked gazes with the snarling Arishok and raised his hand to his temple. With little more than a grimace, he blasted the Arishok away.

The sword had once more gone straight through him, the Arishok’s strength too great for Hawke’s slim body. He staggered when he tried to stand from the column. Blood sloshed in great globs to the ground. Still he raised his staff, using it as a third leg, and gripped the sword.

Hawke had been the one to drill it in their heads, over and over again, to not ever pull out a weapon unless he or Anders were near. That they could quickly lose too much blood, and there would be no way for even their spirits to save them.

Yet Hawke, with one hand, slowly started pulling out the sword.

It was too big, too heavy, for the man to pull properly. He slid around the column, keeping his distance from the Arishok, who got to his feet slowly, as all did who got a taste of Hawke’s raw power. Hawke made some animalistic roar and dropped his staff to grip the sword in both hands. With a horrible suctioning sound, the sword finally wrenched free from Hawke’s chest.

A gush of blood spurted from the open wound.

Fenris had seen countless men in worse conditions. He’d watched guts fall from a man’s stomach, had seen the chest of a man wrenched open from his own hand, not bothering to simply take out his heart but to rupture him from the inside out. He’d seen men with injuries like Hawke’s before. He’d seen every last one of them drop dead.

Please, he found himself begging. Please, _please_ heal him.

A scream of golden light shot through the room and suffused Hawke. It burned Fenris’ eyes, chased away the shadows in the corners of the enormous room. Everything burned gold and bright like lightning. When Hawke stood straight, his eyes glowed.

The Arishok moved to Hawke as the mage threw the sword to the side. With pure power, he called his staff back to his dripping hand. The staff nearly slid away, the blood so thick it left his hands slippery. Once again, Azzan was left holding himself together as he held his stance. The Arishok looked at Azzan, weak and limp and falling apart, and forewent his weapon for the killing blow. Azzan gritted his teeth and shot out another burst from his staff, the shot shining golden, again and again and again. Still, the Arishok advanced.

Fenris felt ready to burst. How could it be acceptable for a warrior to let his healer fight on the front lines? Wasn’t it he, years ago, who had ordered Azzan to stay back and let Fenris and the others fight in the front? Wasn’t it he who had ordered Azzan to focus on healing? And now Azzan was trying to be both, to be everything, and Fenris, who could easily go to his side and protect him, had chosen to leave him to fight alone. He felt a warring within him, a belief that he needed to accept the battle of honor happening before him battling the itching urge to make sure Azzan came out of the duel alive.

If he dared think that Azzan might not make it – that what he was watching was the man’s final fight, his final moments - he would not stand still. He would not be able to keep himself from getting involved. The moment he thought he might stand by and let Azzan die in front of his eyes, his feet would carry him forward, and the battle would turn into a butchering.

Azzan whacked away the Arishok’s first punch with his staff. Blocked the second, though it shoved him once more against the column. Instead of trying to run, as usual, Azzan cast a spell that looked suspiciously like his hastening spell and fought back.

Without his sword, the Arishok had made himself relatively vulnerable, Fenris realized, and even injured, Azzan was going to take advantage.

His chest made horrible cracking sounds, and blood seeped from between his lips, but still Azzan smacked the Arishok’s side with his staff, blasted his chest dead-on with several golden bolts, and finally slammed the man back with another blast of raw energy, the waves of which echoed throughout the room. The Arishok landed hard on his back. Hawke gave no quarter, whipping his staff forth and shooting as much power as he could through the foci. The Arishok’s body shook from the hits. Each bruise blossomed black, blood seeping through the wounds. Considering the physical ills, Fenris could only imagine the drain on the Qunari’s soul. Azzan hit hard as long as he could, speed so great his arms were a blur, the Arishok barely managing to stand before the spell wore off and Azzan took a careful step back, finally blasting the greatsword across the room. It banged against the wall by the door, several meters from the Arishok. The Qunari stood, finally bent over from the weight of his injuries.

Azzan’s wound, on the other hand, had begun to close.

He’s immortal, Fenris thought, his mind blanking in incredulity. Azzan, with help from his spirit, could take on anything. No wonder the man had fearlessly run forward when Fenris had first met him. Even as he watched, he saw the blood on those lips slow to a stop, the blood and bone knit together beneath Azzan’s open skin, and finally saw the skin seam together as if it had never been split.

Again, the battle turned to one of contrition, Azzan shooting the Arishok’s sword away every time he went for it, until the Qunari was forced to confront the mage with only his ax and his fists. These were much easier for Hawke to dodge and parry, and finally, the Qunari stumbled himself, and Hawke had won. Hawke stepped forward, that golden glow dimming into nothingness as he stood before the Arishok.

This was the other moment Fenris had feared. Hawke was not a killer, and a battle of honor went against everything the man stood for. Honor meant finding a way _around_ battles, not into them. To him, Fenris feared, this would be like murder.

Beside him, Aveline moved. Fenris turned in time to see the woman lift the viscount’s crown. His heart tore. Of course. Of course that was necessary. To remind Hawke what the Arishok had done, what he was willing to do to Isabela, to Kirkwall. A way to force Azzan to act.

He turned back. Azzan had seen. His lips thinned. His eyes hardened. He lifted his staff. The Arishok stumbled to his knees.

The Allure’s Crook had a small, curved stone foci, sharpened at the end but clearly not used for stabbing like a javelin might be. Still, Hawke lifted it high, foregoing his dagger – knowing better, likely, then to let down his guard, even now. “One day,” the Arishok said, “we shall return.”

Hawke hesitated for only an instant. But in that instant, Fenris saw something age in his eyes.

Hawke was not made for this. Hawke was a healer.

Hawke needed only to look at one of the Qunari warriors for them all to disperse, honoring the word of their fallen Arishok. Hawke stood still as they walked beyond him, his gaze just over the corpse of the Arishok, his blue eyes sightless as he waited, likely expecting an attack, or perhaps… perhaps he was simply adjusting to the new weight on his heart.

Fenris made to go to him, only for Meredith and her band to race into the room, her narrowed gaze taking in the room before turning to Hawke. “Is it… over?” the woman asked.

Azzan turned to her. “It’s over,” he said, his voice low and hard and dangerous in a way Fenris rarely ever heard. The last time Hawke had spoken like this, he’d been glaring down at Hadriana. Her, just as then, Fenris could not read him.

“The city has been saved!” one of the noblemen shouted. A cheer rose throughout the nobles. One of the women even pumped her fist into the sky and didn’t even try to demure afterward. Fenris saw Azzan smile. Meredith turned a dark glare on Azzan. When she put away her sword, she did so slowly, her body tense with intent.

“It appears,” she said, staring Hawke down as she made her way to stand just in front of him, “Kirkwall has a new champion.”

The nobles cheered. Fenris looked at them all. Could they not see the threat the woman posed to their newly beloved _champion?_ Did they not know, or perhaps not care, what it meant that Hawke had used his magic in front of them all?

He looked at Hawke. The man smiled at the people, but his shoulders were still tense. Covered in his own blood as he was, he made a stunningly vulnerable figure, even as he stood tall and proud amongst the masses. Meredith did not back down. Her gaze did not leave Hawke. The nobles, still cheering, began to converge on Hawke, surrounding him so much that Meredith eventually had to cede her position in front of him. Many shook Hawke’s hand, praised his return to the noble houses, thanked the Amell family for coming to Kirkwall in time to save them. No matter that they’d returned years before, when the Fifth Blight had begun, when Ferelden refugees had flooded their streets. No matter that the Amell line had technically ended, that there was only the Hawke line, and that line included the magic they’d initially vilified. No matter that it was that very magic that had saved them – that had saved Hawke himself.

Fenris watched Meredith’s slow retreat, the gaze she kept on Hawke until the very last second, when she turned to leave. Always, even now, he believed templars to be a necessity. For all that Hawke was the exception to the rule, the rule still applied to the rest – mages were dangerous, and volatile, and needed to be controlled. But Fenris did not like that look in her eyes, or what it meant for Azzan.

For now, though – for now, he thought, gazing at Hawke once again, all that mattered was that Hawke was alive. Everything, anything, else could wait.

* * *

Finally, after nearly another hour, Hawke was left alone. The nobles dispersed with some sort of fanfare, each of them shouting out loud about the new “Champion of Kirkwall.” Fenris went to Hawke’s side.

Despite the blood and the battle, Hawke seemed to be in almost perfect shape. Once they were alone in the throne room, however, the man stumbled. Fenris grabbed him and helped him to the dais steps. “Sorry,” Hawke said, as if he hadn’t earned the right to lean on someone. Fenris set him down, only to find Hawke’s shoulders trembling slightly. He looked at the man’s hands. They shook. “Overtaxed Faith a bit,” he said, and chuckled. Fenris’ lips pulled down. Hawke may have looked immortal out there, but he’d pushed himself beyond his limits in order to win. Fenris would have to keep an eye on him.

For a short moment, Hawke looked around. He frowned. “Isabela?” he asked. Fenris looked around, as well. At some point after the battle, she must have slipped off. He frowned. “Oh, well. Hopefully, she went to see Merrill.” Fenris raised a brow. So he hadn’t been the only one to see something happening between the two lately.

Hawke ran a hand through his hair. There had been cuts and bruises along his scalp before, but they were gone now. Still, the blood remained, clumping his hair together. His hand, too, had dried blood covering it. It flaked off as he moved it through his hair. “You fought well,” Fenris said, his mouth fumbling over the words that mattered. Still, Hawke sent him a smile brighter than the sun.

“Thanks,” he said. Nothing else.

Fenris’ brows furrowed. Something seemed off. As healed as Hawke now seemed, there was something off in the feel of him. “How are you?”

Hawke rolled his shoulders. He wouldn’t, Fenris realized finally, meet his eyes. The aura, usually a cool spring wind, felt hotter than usual. It very quickly died entirely. “Hawke?”

His voice held a hint of a warning, and suddenly those broad shoulders slumped. “I killed a man in cold blood, Fenris,” he said quietly. “How do you think we’re taking it?”

Fenris’ heart picked up again. Hawke had been linked to his spirit as he’d been fighting the Arishok. Had something happened because of that? “It’s not–”

“Faith didn’t turn,” Hawke said, his voice quiet. Fenris felt his head go fuzzy with relief. “But we didn’t come out unscathed, either. No matter how necessary, it was still a kill. I don’t harm with her so closely linked with me. I tried to send her away for the final blow, but – she knew very well. If I lowered my guard, and the Arishok was able to recover, to attack one last time… she wasn’t willing to take the risk, and neither was I. We’re… dealing with the consequences.”

Fenris wished he knew what those consequences would be, or how Hawke would have to deal. This battle might have cost Hawke his tenuous grip on his control. And if he lost it? If he became an abomination and turned to blood magic or dark rituals? If he became like Anders?

Would he be able to cut Azzan down?

Hawke huffed a short laugh, apparently seeing something of Fenris’ thoughts on his face. “We need to separate for a time, Fenris. Faith needs to heal, and maybe rethink the terms of our union. It means I won’t be able to use the healing magic she helped me with for a time.” He scratched at his temple. Several strands of his hair had come loose from his tie during the battle, and as his sweat cooled on his brow, they hung in loose locks all over the place. Fenris’ hand itched to straighten them, even with what he was hearing. “My disgust with what I was doing helped, I think.” He looked away. His smile looked plastered on his face. “I didn’t want to kill him. He gave me no choice.”

Fenris didn’t understand what that small difference might have done, but if it helped, then so be it. “And if you do fall?”

Azzan took a deep breath. “The worst has come and gone. But if I do, I know Varric will uphold his old bargain.” He gave Fenris that cheap, false grin. “Don’t worry for now, Fenris. My link with Faith has been damaged, but so far, the two of us are all right. That’s why we have to separate – to repair the bond between us, and to renew the contract.”

Fenris nodded, slowly. He didn’t understand making deals with devils. He didn’t understand making deals with the devil’s cousins, either. Was it worth healing people a bit better if it meant selling your soul?

Fenris had learned a long time ago that he wasn’t the one who could protect Azzan from this. He, more than the mage himself, was susceptible to the wiles of demons and their coaxing words. In this, there was little he could do. He watched Azzan stand, each movement like that of an old man’s, his body wracked from the battle and the excessive healing. Flakes of dried blood drifted like ash to the floor.

A few servants entered the room with buckets and mops and a large bag, and Fenris stood, as well. Hawke didn’t make any movement toward those people. He didn’t look angry or out of control. Just tired.

Fenris held his breath as Azzan left. Whatever this was, it was dangerous. Hawke was a healer. This shouldn’t have happened. There would be repercussions.


End file.
